


can't seem to burn bright enough

by canonlytrans



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Condoms, Drunk Driving, Earth C (Homestuck), F/M, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Oral Sex, Partial Mind Control, Past Jake English/Dirk Strider, Post-Game(s), Thinking About Someone Else During Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonlytrans/pseuds/canonlytrans
Summary: Dirk takes over the narrative, and takes control over Jake's sexual encounter with one Jane Crocker.This, as you'd expect, doesn't go very well.





	can't seem to burn bright enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/gifts).



> you asked for "dirk taking control over jane and jake's sexual encounter. heavily inspired by the scene in the epilogues in which he keeps narrating it and for every action jake takes with jane, he compares it to something similar with dirk.  
> basically, dirk puppet mastering jake and jane and making jake think about him all the way while doing it." and i hope i provided! sorry it's not epilogue-compliant - i'm not an epilogue fan, but this really popped out to me.
> 
> i'd like to thank both of the betas who read over this - one posted about it in the server so i'll edit this to thank them publicly later, and james/dj from bulges r us (i don't know your ao3 if you have one.)
> 
> BIG BIG BIG THING: DON'T FORGET TO HIT SHOW CREATOR'S STYLE!!!!!!
> 
> title is from "an introduction to the album" by hotelier.
> 
> Also HUGE THANKS to https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159609/chapters/2355671

It tastes like butterscotch - if you hadn’t ordered it from the bar ten minutes ago, you wouldn’t know it was alcoholic. You’ve had this exact same drink before, though, probably four or five or eighteen times in the past year and a half. For fuck’s sake, Jake, becoming an alcoholic this early in life? You’re only twenty two, and you’re drinking at a grody bar in the city, far away from SkaiaNet, far away from anyone knowing who you are.

You’re already a little tipsy - vodka and club soda will do that to you, and you’re pretty decent at hiding the alcohol you’ve been drinking in the office, because you’re stressed to the nines and tired and honestly, sometimes?

Sometimes a little alcohol’s the only thing that gets you going, and right now, you’re more interested in crashing out back at your loft than anything else. You don’t give a shit about the waitress who keeps eyeing you, wondering if you’re single. You don’t give a shit about the bartender passing you a cocktail from the guy on the other side of that pole. You don’t give a shit about the barstools that keep squeaking against the floor every time you so much as move. You don’t give a shit about any of it.

What you do give a shit about is that it’s Jane Crocker’s twenty-second birthday, and she didn’t invite you to her birthday party.

Which is pretty fucking dumb, but then again, you’re pretty immature, wouldn’t you say? You sent her flowers and said breakfast was on you, ‘cause she’s your friend, she’s one of your best friends. You saw her posting pictures on Snapchat, on Facebook, on Twitter - her with Roxy and Calliope, with Jade and John, with Dave and Rose and Kanaya and ~~me~~ Dirk. She had an arm around Gcatavros in one of those pictures, Davepeta making a V sign over Jane’s head like she had bunny ears. There was Roxy and Calliope making out while Jane laughed, and there was ~~me~~ Dirk and Jade and John with arms around each other, grinning, a party hat on John’s head, reading “22” in big bold letters.

They’d forgotten about you.

They didn’t care about you.

See, Jake, you’re forgettable, and you know it. Like, seriously, what the hell did you do in the game? Cause some relationship drama between you and your friends? Save a few people in the last battle? Yeah, you didn’t really do jack shit, now did you.

You just kind of exist, and you know it.

So you’re sitting at a gritty little bar in the city, a butterscotch-flavored drink burning down your throat, and you’re staring at your phone, at the video of your three best friends with their arms around each other, ~~me~~ Dirk and Roxy screaming “Happy birthday, Jane!” pretty damn loudly, boisterous grins on their lips.

Around you, there’s customers talking, people arguing over sports wins and someone crying to the bartender, who’s standing there with his sleeves rolled up and wiping down that part of the bar. There’s friends laughing, a gal with a “bride-to-be” sash flirting with some guy in the dingy hallway near the back, there’s a guy stumbling out of the bathroom with another guy right behind him, face covered in lipstick. There’s some chick smoking a blunt next to you, and she smells like rose perfume and fried pickles, and she laughs at you and asks if you want a puff.

Your three _best_ friends, people you’ve known since you were a _kid_ , and _you’re_ not there.

* * *

(So here's the thing, you know? I'm a decent guy. I've let shit happen, let life go on - I'm not the most _horrible_ dude out there, really. Things could be _so_ much worse than they currently are, and I'd like to think we all know that, and are in agreement that yeah, the world could be a fucking horrible place to be in. Way worse than right now.

I guess what I'm _trying_ to say is that I'm a simple man with simple tastes - and that taste is one Jake English, who honestly doesn't deserve a cent of sympathy for all the shit he's pulled in life. I mean really, the dude was a fucking dunce, and not in the sweet, sexy himbo-fied kind of way that gets all the world's male-attracted folks wet in the panties. No, Jake English is single-handedly the most idiotic and attractive man to ever exist on this bitch of a planet. Guy knows he’s hot. He knows he’s attractive. He knows he’s got the sexy archaeology professor look down stat, and he toys with people’s emotions.

You dig me?

I guess I _should_ say "here we go again," except for some of you, this isn't really 'again.' You know how many timelines there are, right? Fucking trillions, if not more. But _me_ \- you know me. I'm the guy who's got a finger in every pie.

So let's go ahead and get started on eating this one up.)

* * *

You’re throwing up in the bathroom, your arms keeping you from landing head first in the toilet. Your knees are on some paper towels, which is a lot nicer than the ground itself - you’re pretty sure there’s piss on the floor, ‘cause the towels are kinda sopping wet, and you don’t want to know what that smell is.

But hey, you grew up on a fucking island in the middle of nowhere for a large part of your life. I’d say you’ve got it down pretty good, being in gross places.

There’s a couple having sex a stall over, and you don’t think they care about the fact that you’re vomitting into the toilet right next to them, they’re just moaning and shouting up a storm, and you think the noise banging against the stall door is probably their version of bathroom fucking. You’ve never actually had sex in a public place - sure, you’ve fucked in a bathroom before, but that was in a huge ass bathtub that sat two people pretty easy.

But gods do you want to be back at your loft, preferably in that bathtub, not kneeling on the floor with your head in the toilet. So you get up, wipe off your mouth, and wash your hands off in the cold steel sink. That couple doesn’t quit going at it, just quits banging against the door, and… man do you miss having a body pressed up against your own, _now don’t you?_

You stumble out of the bathroom, past a waitress weaving her way through the patrons with shot glasses collected atop a tray. Your head hurts, and you brace yourself against the wall, your hand on a graffitied brick or two. The lighting is muddled, coming through dark filters, and you’re not quite a fan, but this is the bar YOU chose, now isn’t it?

Ah, Jake. Never thinking things through. You could’ve gone to any nightclub, any fancy bar, but _you_ chose this rundown one in the worser parts of the city.

It’s the neon lights and the lighting that has you in a spin, and you barely manage to get out the front door. The fresh air hits you like an oncoming truck, and you grab at the door for a second, almost falling flat on your face. You’re way more drunk than you should be, which isn’t normal, but is in fact a narrative choice by yours truly. Don’t worry, Jake, you’ll be sober soon enough.

You almost hit a trash can and add a new dent to it, trying to get out of there, your legs stumbling too much, like you’re being weighed down. And maybe you are. Maybe it’s those choices you’ve made in the past, finally catching up to you. Who knows?

Traffic’s at a lull, the stop light’s red, the crosswalk light pings, and you make your way to the other side of the street where you parked your car. Probably a bad idea, but it’s your car, and you’d rather not risk leaving it here. Someone honks their horn at you, and you groan, turning the key in the ignition and getting the car started up. The wheel feels heavy in your hands, and you close your eyes, try to Hope yourself back to being sober.

It doesn’t quite work.

(See, here’s your problem, Jake, baby. You always expect someone else to do the work for you.)

Your head hurts less, though, and you can properly focus, so you take that to your advantage, pull out of the parking spot and head home, the windows cranked down so the fresh air will help. You don’t think you drank that much, just that vodka soda and the butterscotch-flavored schnapps and rum, but apparently you’re a lightweight when it comes to drinking alcohol. I guess you don’t have it in you to drink that much, not tonight.

Your car smells like exhaust and motor oil, and you hate it, so you turn up the air conditioning and blast it the entire way home. It’s a pretty high climb up to your apartment, so instead you just park the car in the garage - you paid extra for that, might as well use it - and fly up to your balcony instead, fingers fumbling for your key. You’re exhausted \- your throat feels thick and restricted all at once, and you just want to fall on your couch, want to never come up off of it.

Your phone blares with messages you still haven’t read, from at least three days ago, and you finally bother to look at them. Your dog, Indiana (yeah, after the movie character, aren’t you hilarious?), jumps up on the couch, wagging his tail, his floppy ears tilting over when he tilts his head at you. You reach over and rub at his ears, sighing when he licks a big wet stripe across your nose.

**TG:** youre always working so late  
**TG:** youre becoming a workaholic jakey it’s SOOOO annoying  
**TG:** you should come out and DO more!

No wonder they didn’t invite you, _Jakey_. You don’t even bother to reply to their texts.

Maybe you used to, once upon a time. Maybe you used to actually give a shit about your friends, maybe they used to give a shit about you. But now, does it even matter? Here you are, drunk, going to have the worst possible hangover tomorrow - that’s a given. You deserve it, don’t you? 

All these unhealthy coping mechanisms. Well shucks, Jake - give a little, get a lot.

Now you’re a lonely shell of who you could be, and I don’t think there’s anything better you could do about it.

* * *

==> JAKE: Do something about it.

Well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re capable of doing things, huh?

**GT:** Jane? I suppose i never did wish you a happy birthday now did i? I mean i couldve sworn i did.

(You did. She never received it.)

**GG:** Oh, Jake. To what do I owe the pleasure?  
**GG:** That’s a joke. You already stated why.  
**GT:** Oh ummm well ive just been really bus.y i just saw you posting about your birthday and all, and i figured i should make sure you knew i hope you had a good birthdya!  
**GG:** Mhm.  
**GT:** I supppose it was rather spectacular then?  
**GT:** Did you have a good time?  
**GG:** I did.  
**GG:** Are you drunk?  
**GT:** I may have had a drink or two, but thats far from tthe point!  
**GG:** Not really? You know how bad drinking is, Jake. Oh goodness, Jake, what’ve you gotten yourself into?  
**GT:** Why didnt you invite me to your party?  
**GG:** What?  
**GT:** Well im just a tad bitt curious is all. I completely understand! Really. But i wanted to know why?  
**GT:** Like im sure you and john had a really nice party…  
**GG:** Oh. Sorry.   
**GG:** I thought I did invite you.  
**GT:** You did not no! But thats fine!! I understand. Really truly. I know i can certainly be rather insufferable and im sure you didnt want me there ruining your big day! I mean goodness gracious how old are you and john now? 22 right?  
**GG:** Yes.  
**GT:** Well im sure it was a lot of fun! Ill send you the gift i got you tomorrow hehe.  
**GG:** I’ll just come by, right now. I mean, I’d like to see you.  
**GT:** Oh you really dont have to.  
**GG:** Nonsense. You’re my friend.

You’re my friend, she says, and your stomach gives a little lurch at that - the good kind, unsurprisingly. It’s been… well, it’s been a long ass time since you saw Jane Crocker in person - several good months now. What was that, back in December, for Christmas? Or was it at Roxy’s birthday party? (Well, Roxy and Rose’s.)

But so far, your correspondence with Jane has been… well, pretty decent, right? So this should be good! You should have a flipping fantastic few minutes with her, get to see one of your best friends.

Really, Jake, you should know by now that she’s just taking pity on you and swinging by ‘cause she feels sorry for your sad ass. But you have no idea, because you don’t pay attention to the context, or read between the lines.

* * *

Let’s take a look at Jane’s point of view for a moment:

Jane Crocker is basking in the moonlight. It's a fucking gorgeous evening, CrockerCorp is thriving, she's having the time of her life. Take the Condescension and smash her brain in half, take out the Nicki Minaj-esque-ness, and give the rest to some baker slash housewife who's tired of waiting for hubby to come home, and you got Jane Crocker. Is that misogynistic of me to say? Maybe, but it's the best way to put it - picture that housewife shooting her husband point blank in the forehead and taking over his company, and you'll see what I mean.

Jane's built herself up to be what she was raised to be. She's smart, ambitious, and takes no shit. She's got no fucks left to give. She's a fucking _goddess_ , having a grand old time with her life. Like Beyonce said, she runs the goddamn world.

And she's happy.

I _genuinely_ mean that. Jane Crocker is happy. Her baked goods empire is the top of the chain, and she rules it with a golden heart and a soft fist. She's got some of that housewife charm left in her, after all.

Jane's laying across a lounge chair on the deck of her apartment building, her crimson high heels sitting pretty on the table so they don't get too dirty. She’s twenty two years old today, she had a great day with her friends, the cake she and John baked together got scarfed down in ten minutes flat. Dave accidentally hit on her, Rose and Kanaya got her a beautifully made suit dress that she KNOWS she’ll look amazing in, Roxy kissed her face all over while giggling and talking about how Jane’s grown up so much. Dirk - aka me, if you haven’t noticed \- even deigned to gift her with her own autoresponder, built to handle CrockerCorp for her when she needs a break.

And God does she need a break.

Then her phone buzzes, and it’s you (Jake), asking if you wished her a happy birthday. You didn’t. You seem tipsy, when she replies, and her suspicion is proven when she asks you, and you give her a pretty straightforward answer. God does she wish you’d just turn off your phone and leave her alone. She just wants a single evening sans friends, sans any bullshit whatsoever.

Her cat, Kichel - Rose named her - leaps on top of her lounge chair, curling into a pretty marmalade-colored ball at the bottom of her feet. Jane almost named her after me, would you believe it? It’s the orange, I’ll admit.

But Jane Crocker’s one amazing woman. So yeah, she agrees to come see you, because something in her tells her that it’s the only way to get you to shut up.

And maybe it is, guess we’ll see.

* * *

You’re sipping at a water bottle when Jane unlocks your door - she has a key, so does half of your group of friends. She steps inside, her bright red heels instantly reminding you of Wizard of Oz, but also the fact that once upon a time, she wore completely red, and tried to coerce you into marrying her and popping out babies. Sure, she was under the Condesce’s spell, but… Jane was still sort of in there, wasn’t she?

(In your nightmares, Jane ties you up and has you dressed up in red to match. Puts a tiaratop right on your head, puts you under her spell, too. _And in your nightmares, you like it_.)

Jane smiles at you, her ruby-painted lips curled into a facsimile of the one you know. You don’t realize this, though, because you’re tipsy, and sitting there in your rumpled up shirt and jean shorts, your legs dangling over the side of the couch. Indiana perks up when Jane enters, wagging his tail excitedly - he rushes over, and Jane pulls a slight face, but reaches down and pets him, scratching behind his ears. He rewards her with a lick on her hand, and she wipes it off on her pants.

She’s dressed down a little - plain shirt and jacket, jeans, those ruby red heels. She takes off her jacket, hangs it on your coat rack, and strides towards you, her heels clicking across the wooden floor. She doesn’t look much different than she did back in the game - same short hair, same red-rimmed glasses, same French manicured nails (you remember her saying she and Roxy did their nails together once or twice - Jane’s always been pretty feminine when she wants to be.)

“Jake,” she says, and meets your gaze.

“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be here so quickly,” you say, and set down your water bottle, getting to your feet. “I’ll go get your gift, and um, hold on just a moment! You’ll have to tell me how splendidly fun your birthday party was - oh, how’s Jade doing? And John, too, and -”

“Jake,” she says, slightly laughing. “Slow down. It’s quite alright. I don’t have very long, sorry.”

You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping. “Sorry. It’s alright, Jane, I understand! Just give me a moment, I’ll go grab it.”

She nods, and you hurry up the stairs to where your bed and dresser are, rifling through the drawers until you find the haphazardly wrapped box. You’re pretty sure she’ll love the contents - it took you a few days to find them, and you KNOW she’s going to find it pretty interesting, and will probably be pretty damn excited.

You head back down the stairs, holding the box like you’re Rafiki in the Lion King, and hand it over to her, leaning forward so you can see the look on her face a little better. She’s shorter than you, 5’2” to your 5’11”, so it’s a bit of a lean.

She smiles, licking her lips, and carefully tears off the teal wrapping paper, opening the cardboard box with hesitation. You’re practically bouncing on your toes, the alcohol in your system all but gone.

Jane takes out the first object - a marble pastry board. It took you a while to find, took several trips to different baked goods stores, but you’ve heard her talking about how much she wants one. You know she’s going to love it, but…

Her smile falters faintly.

You barely notice it.

“Oh, this is… wow,” she says, blinking at it, before taking out the next one - Russian piping tips, that you think are pretty dang nifty, and clearly she’s at least mildly interested, holding one up to the light to look at it better. And of course, the bread lame, because apparently that’s something very, very useful for bakers. She looks up at you, blushing, biting down on her red lips while she puts the pastry board and piping tips and lame back in the box. “These are wonderful, Jake.”

(You’re out of the loop, Jake. Don’t you know she’s probably got a shit ton of these already?)

She glances down at her feet, putting the gift in her sylladex, before rubbing at the back of her neck. “Really. I’ve been wanting one of these marble pastry boards, how did you know?”

“You talk about it a lot,” you say, quietly, but your cheeks are burning - it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t like them, and your throat feels even thicker than before, face hot and tingly and burning so red. God, you’re a dunce.

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” Jane mumbles, and steps forward. Before you know it, she’s hugging you. Your hand slides up her back, resting against the thin cotton of her shirt. You can feel a mole through the fabric, which isn’t something you’ve ever noticed before - you also didn’t notice ‘til just now that she smells like sugar cookies, like Christmas in a tin. Your breath catches in your throat, all sharp and the sort that you just want to exhale.

“Of course I did,” you say, and your hand is right against the back of her neck, feeling the softer hairs there. They’re silky smooth against your fingers. You can feel her hands curling up in the fabric of your own shirt, making wrinkles, but you don’t care.

It’s just nice to have someone right here.

She pulls back, looking up at you, smoothing down her shirt. You realize she was floating a little, and you leaning down a bit, to make up for the height difference.

“I should be going,” she says, with a subtle little laugh, the sort that makes your face feel even hotter. It bothers you, just a little - not the laugh or the way your face heats up, but the look on her face, her lips pressed together, her eyebrows compressed even more, the tentative touch she gives your arm, like she’s apologizing for having so little time for you.

For her friend.

(Well, I’d say she has all the time in the world for that.)

It bothers you, how she’s looking at you, not like you’re her friend, not like you’re someone who she shares more than just a few conversations with. You’re a part of her, like she’s a piece of you. She’s glancing down at her watch, stepping back, readying herself to leave, so…

You kiss her.

You step forward, and lean down, press your mouth against hers, frantic at first, before melting into something a bit more tender. At first, she goes to push you away, but then decides against it, leaning up into you and into the kiss, her eyes closing. She’s not the best kisser - you’ve definitely kissed better, you’ve kissed _Dirk Strider_ , after all. I mean, I’d say I’m a much better kisser than she is.

 _I’m_ far more desperate in that than she is. Right now, _I’d_ be tugging at your lips with my teeth, my tongue in your mouth, and you’d be pressing me against the closest wall, my fingers struggling with the buttons on your shirt. Instead, she’s languid, almost cat-like in the way she kisses you back, slow and steadily. Her hand’s on the back of your neck, pulling you closer - mine would be in your hair, tugging hard, making you moan into my mouth.

You kissed me like I was going to fade away if you weren’t careful.

You’re kissing _her_ like she’ll always be there.

She pulls away from you, her breath a bit harried, and she’s looking up at you, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, with arousal. “Jake…” Her voice is like honey on your ears, pouring slow and sweet. “I…”

“I’m sorry,” you say, stepping back. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”

She steps towards you, making up for the distance, and sort of floats up, throwing her arms around your neck, pushing you into the couch. She straddles you, her lips back on yours in a second, her forehead pressed as much against yours as it can be, considering the glasses.

The first thing to go are always the glasses, with _us_. Or I should say they _were_ always the first to go. First the glasses, then everything else, starting with pants, shirts, underwear.

Your hand is on her back, stroking at her skin, getting up past her shirt. Her bare skin is softer than you’d expect, softer than yours, and your fingers just rest there. Hilarious, since you’d be scratching up my back right now, and vice versa. I wonder if you have scars from that?

Your brain tries to push those thoughts out of mind, tries to focus on Jane, on how her mouth is soft against yours, how her lipstick’s smearing across your lips. Remember that time I wore lipstick, dressed up in a sexy French maid outfit, and you fucked me on this very sofa, pinned my wrists back so I couldn’t move, fucked me into the cushions like your life depended on it?

You moan into Jane’s mouth, and she pauses, pulling back, noticing your mildly obvious arousal. Jane’s never _been_ with a man before - well, not one with _your_ parts, at least. “Sorry,” she mumbles, her hips right against yours. “Is… is this okay?”

You nod, pressing kisses against her neck. No bite marks or hickies, huh? You’ve really changed your tune. I remember you being a lot more rough in bed - well, when you _wanted_ to be, or when _I_ wanted you to be.

You roll your hips up against hers, and she lets out a choked little noise, grinding back down in reaction. Man, dude, frottage. That’s not a new one. Try something a _little_ newer, huh? Her hips press against yours, grinding down languidly, her fingers digging into your shoulders as her head tilts back ever so slightly, and you press your mouth to the exposed skin on her neck.

It’s pretty obvious to her where this is heading, so she pulls back off of you, letting out a little whine. “Do you have condoms?”

“Um,” you say, blinking, your head too hazy and unclear to really understand the question at first. You do, actually, which is a damn good thing. “In, erm, my pocket.”

“Don’t mumble,” she says, voice a little breathless, a little giggly.

You don’t worry about the condom right now - you want something a little different, if she’s okay with that - you get to your feet, kneeling on the carpet, and she nods, gripping at the couch cushions with both her hands. Her legs are a little hairy, and there’s some poking through her underwear, but you don’t care, just push her legs apart and get the underwear down, biting your tongue hesitantly.

You’ve only ever gone down on me before, and that’s way different.

Dicks are simple - female parts are like a goddamn puzzle room, not that you have much of an issue with that. Your tongue presses flat against her clit, and she lets out a shaky gasp, her legs coming to dangle across your back. She doesn’t taste like I do - it’s similar, the same tanginess, but you’re more interested in making her come than you are in dwelling on flavor differences. Thankfully, you get to it, your nails digging slightly into her thick thighs, and she lets out what you can only classify as a mewl in response. She’s sort of wet, and getting wetter, and your tongue’s a bit sloppy against the heated skin, even as you swipe your tongue downwards, towards her opening, and her hand leaves the cushion to grasp at your hair.

Now that’s a little more like me, wouldn’t you say?

You bring your finger back up towards her clit, lazily drawing circles around it, and Jane’s entire body tenses at that, her thighs squeezing around your face, and… yeah, definitely different than me - usually you’d keep me against the wall, landing on your knees with little to no gracefulness. My hands would twine into your hair, grasping hard, yanking harder, and you’d hiss out in pain around my dick, your teeth scraping a little too harshly.

But damn, Jake. Thinking about me while going down on her? _That’s_ pretty harsh.

“Jake,” she gasps out, “ _don’t stop._ ”

You could get drunk on her voice like this. You could fall apart like this, only to the noise of her chest heaving and her nails scraping against your scalp. Her face is red, and she’s pulling up her own shirt, getting it off, to escape the heat - her bra is aquamarine blue, matching her underwear, a little lacy. It’s sort of cute, in a weird way.

Her high heels are still dangling across your back.

Her shirt lands on the floor, and you continue with your tongue, relentless, dipping it inside her before nosing at her clit, and she gasps out your name, raspy and breathily, her hips grinding up into your face. It’s a newer sensation, but you find you don’t mind it.

“God, yes, _Jake_ ,” she hisses, and you press a finger inside of her, testing, coming away practically dripping. “I... I want you inside of me. _Please_.”

You pull your face back, wiping off the wetness, and say, “Are you sure?”

“Jesus Christ, Jake, _just fuck me already_.”

Yeah, Jake, do what the lady asks, why don’t you?

Her face is flush, chest heaving, and you get your pants down, carefully tear open the condom wrapper, and roll it up your ridiculously hard cock. Your entire body’s burning, so you discard the shirt, standing before her completely naked, minus the glasses.

“Lube,” you mumble, and Jane grabs your wrist, pulls you atop her.

“It’ll be fine.”

“But -”

Jane kisses you, and your thoughts melt away. All you can think about is her fingers ghosting across the back of your neck, down your back, across your spine, and it’s beautiful. It’s not unlike how you expect Rome looked, burning to the ground.

But that’s a thought for another day.

You carefully position yourself, drawing her legs up, and she’s looking up at you with a curious frown across her lipstick smudged mouth, one eyebrow raised. You slowly push into her, and she lets out a shaky gasp, grasping hard at the arm of the couch, her other hand tangled with fingers in yours. I’d say it’s almost adorable, the expression on her face when you enter her, how she holds her breath as you push inside. You’re being so gentle with her - not like you would with me, not after we got going like that.

You bottom out before you know it, and she exhales, bringing her legs around you. “Jake, just…”

“It’s okay,” you say, and reach other, stroke at her hair. Her eyes close a little, but she winces slightly. You hope it doesn’t hurt, so you pull back out a little, and all the tension in her body releases.

God. She’s so tight, and warm, and wet. You can feel it through the thin condom - it’s different than what you’re used to, not as tight, it’s different and you’re shaking, pulling out of her, and she grabs your wrist harder, nails digging into your skin, and just nods at you.

So you push back in.

Your hips pick up the pace for you, rolling against her skin, and she’s holding your hand so tightly, squeezing it tighter with every thrust into her. She’s pliant and willing, sort of just laying back while you fuck into her - _I’m_ more of a participant, wouldn’t you say? Clawing my nails down your back, biting your skin when I can, cussing when you hit the right spots. You can almost feel the phantom pain of nails on your spine, just thinking about that.

Jane’s legs twine so hard around your waist it makes you think of a snake about to devour their prey - that _this_ thought doesn’t kill your raging boner surprises me, too, so don’t even bother thinking too much on it. You just fuck into her like she’s a slip and slide, or some other really shitty metaphor.

It’s just not that fun, now is it, Jake?

You’d much rather be fucking me, let’s be honest.

It’s clear to her you have no idea what you’re doing with her body, so she grabs one of your hands, puts your finger back over her clit. You rub against it, and she throws her head back onto the arm of the couch. “Keep doing that, please, Jake, I’m…”

(I’m gonna edit out the ‘so close’ bit for you, Jake, ‘cause you don’t need this to sound like a porno, not when it’s your first time with dear Jane.)

So you keep doing that. You rub lazy circles into her clit, your hips sort of slamming into hers - you’re close, too, you can feel it, how haphazard your thrusts are - you’ve lost whatever sense of rhythm that you had before. You just want to bury yourself in her and never come out. But the only image on your mind isn’t her, it’s Dirk. It’s _me_. It’s how _I_ looked under you, cum on my stomach, orange eyes half-lidded and staring right into yours. How my nails would dig into your wrists, begging you to keep going. You’d fuck me like you _meant_ it, like you needed me more than you’d ever needed something before in your _life_. Desperate and harsh and rough, because any second, you could lose me.

And you _did_ lose me in the end.

“ _Jake_ ,” Jane shouts out, her entire body collapsing beneath you…

_And you lose it._

Your skin’s covered in sweat, hot and red, and you sink into her, digging your nails into the cushions on either side of her. 

“Fuck, _**Dirk**_ -” 

Everything’s pulsing, hot red-white burning, and your body jerks and shakes, overcome with heat and pleasure and exhaustion. You collapse atop her, burying your face in her neck, her skin just as sweaty and gross as yours, but you don’t care.

You can’t bring yourself to care. But _she_ does.

“Did… um, did you call me _Dirk_?” she asks, chest heaving beneath you, and you sit back up, frowning - her eyes are narrowed, and she’s looking anywhere but right at you. She pushes you off of her, gets to her feet, reaches to the ground and grabs her shirt and pants. “I should go.”

“Jane, wait -”

She whips back around towards you, wiping at her mouth, leaving a red stain on the back of her hand. “ _You called me Dirk_?”

“No!”

Jane’s face reddens, as she pulls on her shirt, then goes to button up her pants. “I _knew_ this was a bad idea. You’re not over him. For fuck’s sake, Jake, this is why… this is why nobody wants you around.”

“Jane, please,” you say, stepping towards her.

But she cuts you off, grabbing her jacket off your coat rack. 

“Save it for someone who cares.”


End file.
